Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters, they are the brainchilds and brillian of Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Any song lyrics used are strictly the property of Andrew Lloyd Webber, Richard Stilgoe and Charles Hart.
A/N. I know Meg's real name is Marguerite, but a few chapters ago I made the mistake of calling her Megan, and I thought it was rather silly to change it now. So, Meg is an abbreviation for Megan.
Chapter Fifteen.
Madame Giry wrung her hands in worry. Act one of the opera had begun half an hour ago and Christine had yet to return. The lights had slowly gone out around her, and she stood in the dark and deserted entrance hall alone, there was no one in sight. A cold draft swept past her face, and she squinted, struggling to see in the dim light. A faint light flickered on ahead, and Madame Giry walked onwards. "Christine?" she whispered. Her stomach constricted painfully, tightening in an ominous fashion at the absurdity of the situation; weren't there usually door-men at Opera Houses? Where had they all gone? She found herself standing in front of a heavy set gold and glass door, and pushed it open with a creak. She took a step inside; the hallway was completely void of all light. Madame Giry shuddered at the cold draft emanating from within the hallway, and turned quickly to go back. The door behind her slammed with a bang that reverberated off the walls.
Suddenly a skeletal white hand wrapped itself fiercely around her neck, cutting off her supply of oxygen; the strong, bony fingers ready to snap the fragile bones in her neck should she attempt to struggle. Madame Giry's gasp of fright was cut short as she struggled for breath.
"Antoinette," a deadly cold voice whispered close to her ear, "I should kill you right now."
Madame Giry stood deathly still, struggling to speak against the deft, yet skeletal fingers that held her at their mercy.
"You w-won't," she managed to choke out, recognizing the voice.
"Oh yes?" the voice sneered, "a simple twitch of my fingers and I could snap your neck clean in two… so tell me… what would tempt me to do otherwise?"
Madame Giry's face was turning an ugly purple colour, and the veins in her neck bulged beneath his fingers. "B-because… C-Christine would never… f-forgive you…"
The skeletal hands relinquished some of their pressure, allowing some oxygen to flow to her brain: he was toying with her, and she knew it. She was completely at his mercy now.
"What makes you think I would care?" He hissed.
Madame Giry felt her vision start to swim, "you… l-love her, Erik."
Suddenly he ripped his hands free from her neck with a ferocity that sent her spiraling to the floor, gasping and choking for breath. A candle flared to life in the darkness as he loomed over her.
"Erik, please," she choked.
"Why did you bring her here?" He demanded, his yellow eyes blazing with fury. "I warned you, Antoinette, and I will not be made a fool of… not now. Anyone else and I would have killed you for your betrayal!"
He paced the hall as he spoke, lapsing into his own dark thoughts, trying to calm his murderous temper. When Madame Giry recovered the proper use of her voice, she stared up at Erik in anger and defiance; this was not the first time she had fallen victim to one of his murderous tempers.
"It was your carelessness that led to her discovery of you, Erik… not any betrayal on my behalf." She glared up at him as she rubbed her neck gingerly, her eyes flashing dangerously, "Do you honestly think I would wish you on anyone - especially Christine? Who I think of as my own daughter?!"
"And just what are you implying, Madame?" Erik snarled back at her, his white mask livid in the candlelight.
"Look at you, Erik! A murderer! I have spent years fearing you, justifying you, mourning your terrible past, but no! The mobs were right all along. Here you stand, having just threatened the life of the closest thing to friend you've ever known. You really are nothing better than a cold and cruel, unfeeling thing," he stepped menacingly towards her. Madame Giry stared back defiantly at him, she was sick of being afraid of his unpredictable nature. "Do not make more of a fool of yourself, Erik," she snapped. "You and I both know you won't go through with it; even you couldn't live with that on your conscience."
"I owe you nothing!" he spat.
"You owe Christine everything."
He laughed bitterly; it was a cruel sound. "I wonder, Madame, how you came to that conclusion."
"You stole her life!" His fists clenched at his sides, the nails digging into the flesh of his palms. "And yet you threw away every kindness, every chance you ever had at earning her love, really earning it, on your own vengeful, miserable self-pity and murderous vendetta against the world's cruelty. She's better off without you." She glared at him levelly, her stern voice cold and unfeeling, "you don't deserve her, Erik."
"And yet she is here," he stopped still and whispered coldly.
"You led her here," Madame Giry muttered bitterly.
"I led her here? I let her go!"
"You trapped her first!"
Erik glared at her, his eyes bulging as he fought to control his anger. Madame Giry stepped towards him, "you trapped her with your haunting music; your demon face-" he raised a hand automatically to his mask, "-and your angel's voice."
"She chose the boy-" He hissed through gritted teeth.
"-you left her no choice. My god, Erik, you threatened to kill him; to force her to live with the knowledge of his blood on her hands. You're a murderer!"
"Oh," he whispered sinisterly, "I am so much more, Madame, if only you knew. Buquet was not the first, and will certainly not be the last. His blood was not the only to be shed by my hands. The world assured itself of th-"
"-You've experienced terrible things in your lifetime, Erik, but they falter in comparison to the atrocities you've committed – you've ruined people's lives-"
"-several people's, Antoinette." He whispered quietly, stepping towards her, "Hundreds, thousands… I do not know; I ceased to count. Husbands, fathers, mothers, sons, daughters, children… all met their ugly demises at my murderous hands." He stepped menacingly towards her. "Does that frighten you?"
Madame Giry stared back at him with equal intensity, "No."
He snorted, his eyes flashing a dangerous yellow, like a cat being caught in a spotlight. "Why?"
She sighed in exhaustion. How many times would she be caught up in the darkness of the world in which this eccentric man lived; would she ever truly escape him? "I do not believe, deep down, that you are still that same man, Erik."
"I am a murderer as you so eloquently put it," he sneered.
"And so you are!" He turned away from her. "Everybody has a past, however dark and horrific…but Christine has changed you. I see it, even now." He refused to answer.
"I now know why Christine ran from you; it was in fear." Madame Giry whispered into the darkness, attempting to reel Erik back from the dangerous chasm of murderous insanity he was slowly creeping towards. "I pitied you at first Erik, I saw how desperately you loved her… but she feared you Erik… and she can't forget you." Erik's hand clenched and un-clenched at his side. "Damnit, you selfish, self-pitying coward, what you did to her is irreparable! How could you be so callous and cruel?"
Erik's eyes blazed at the impertinence of being called a "coward". It was a rarity that Madame Giry ever found the courage to speak against him, and he flexed his skeletal fingers, fighting the urge to simply kill her and be done with it. But no, she was right. After the great service she did him when he came to the Opera House even he couldn't live with her death on his conscience.
"Whatever you did to her has changed her, Erik! And for some ungodly reason that I will never understand, despite all the lies, the betrayal-"
"-a funny thing; betrayal!" Erik hissed, grinding his teeth together.
"-The betrayals," Madame Giry continued a little louder, hoping to drown out the horrendous sound of grinding bone. "Despite everything you've put her through, she still loves you."
"She does not know what it is to love and have it slowly kill you. Perhaps now she will get a taste of the poison she deals so readily!"
"You've ruined her. She can't move forwards she can't move back; she left her life, her home in Paris behind because she couldn't deal with the insurmountable grief she felt over your pitiful demise; she was racked with guilt-"
"-as she well should be! I gave her everything, and in return she gave me nothing."
"You both stole parts of one another; it's time you faced what you started all those years ago in the chapel, Erik. You must face her!"
Erik turned coldly towards her. "No."
"She needs you."
"I can't. I won't. I offered her everything once, and I refuse to be the one burned again. It is a game I will no longer play."
She grabbed him by his lapels and shook him hard, "you still love her!"
"She made her choice!"
"Don't be a fool Erik!" She hissed under her breath, her lips pursed so tight they formed a thin white line on her old and weathered face.
His eyes glazed over with ice once more, and he looked down at her hands with disgust, prying them from his lapels and wiping his hands down his jacket as though she were some disease-ridden vermin he'd just trodden on.
"I thank you for your concern, madame," he whispered silkily, slipping once more into the dangerous, yet self-protective fortification of his phantom persona, "but my personal affairs are no longer any business of yours. Let us hope that we never meet here again. An Opera House is a dangerous place; you never know what, or who could be lurking behind the scenes, or in the hallways." Madame Giry's eyes widened in sudden fear for Christine, it had never crossed her mind that Erik might actually hurt her.
"Erik, what have you done?"
He smiled sinisterly at her, "Enjoy the performance."
"Where is she Erik?" she called after him as he walked away, "Erik!"
But with a twirl of his cloak he was gone. Madame Giry shook herself mentally as her hand slowly trailed up her neck to where his skeletal hands had threatened her with death only moments before. She winced, as her fingers grazed the welts his fingers had left upon her tender, weathered flesh. Her heart was beating frantically, as vivid images of Christine lying deathly cold in a hallway, the same skeletal imprints upon her neck and her eyes wide and staring, fought their way into her mind. She walked silently to the door, and yanked it open, stepping out into the formally darkened entrance hall that was now bright and warmly lit. She shuddered involuntarily and began her search for Christine.
XxXxXxX
An age seemed to pass before Christine's eyes as she sat hunched against the wall, her arms wrapped tight about her knees as she rocked herself back and forth. She was the lonely girl crying in the chapel over the devastating loss of her father once more; only this time there was no comforting voice in the darkness to console her. She felt cold and empty, hollowed and gutted. The tears had dried long ago, leaving hard tracks down her cheeks and she stared into the darkness of the faintly lit hallway. The dim lights began to flicker.
"Christine?"
Madame Giry breathed a sigh of relief as she approached her cautiously, aware that Christine had missed the first half of the Opera, and that the intermission would in all likeliness, bring people down the very hallway in which they stood.
"Christine?" she asked gently, kneeling beside her. Christine continued to stare into space, not seeing anything but reliving her childhood; the traumatic death of her father over and over in her mind. She was a little girl again. Madame Giry bent over her, concern etched into every wrinkle of her lightly lined face.
"Erik, did he? Has he-?"
"Gone," Christine whispered softly. What Madame Giry was really going to ask was whether Erik had hurt her, but she decided to leave it. Christine was already badly shaken up as it was.
"He left me, Madame Giry," she said vaguely, her voice dull
Madame Giry, knelt back and assessed her; the smudged rouge and lip stain, the khol-streaked cheeks and the light bruises on her neck, and could only guess at what had occurred in this dark and grimly lit hallway. She frowned in anger and concern, automatically forgetting the near-death encounter she had just endured; what had he done to her? She laced her hand around Christine's arm, "come," she whispered, gently tugging her to her feet, "let's get you cleaned up – the intermission is almost over."
Madame Giry could hear the impending footsteps of the Opera's audience coming their way, and hastily looked about for a bathroom or vacant room, where she could hide Christine from their inquisitive stares. A door lay ajar up ahead, and Madame Giry quickly ushered Christine inside, closing the door firmly behind them. Christine gazed about the room in awe, her attention drawn to the copious amount of books shelved high above her head, and the beautiful piano in the corner. Her eyes fell to the floor, where they widened as she took in the sight of a large red stain that spread across the floorboards. She shuddered as the livid memory of Joseph Buquet hanging from the Opera's rafters; his neck protruding at an odd angle and his eyes wide with fright jumped to her mind. She fervently prayed that the stain wasn't blood; some terrible monument of a grotesque crime. Madame Giry stood behind her, her gaze too was focused on the red stain. Christine stepped over it, towards the desk, where a large ream of parchment resided, and began to idly leaf through the pages; her eyes devoured music score after music score, and she gasped, her eyes lighting on the manuscript title Night-side Phantasia; this was his room! A mannequin head rested to the right of the desk, a black leather mask tightly secured about its head; why hadn't she seen that before?
"Christine," Madame Giry whispered, reminding her of her presence, "I do not think we should be here."
"This is his room," she whispered softly, her inquisitive fingers shifting through the piles of parchment on his desk, as she breathed in his familiar masculine scent. She picked up a tattered copy of Faust and began examining it, when her eyes glimpsed something entirely more alluring. Her breath hitched in her lungs as her eyes lighted on a familiar face, a familiar scene. Gently, with her fingers trembling, she tugged the loose piece of parchment free from within the leather bound folio, her heart thudding so loudly she was sure it echoed within the room.
A pair of large doe eyes gazed back at her sadly from within the drawing; a drawing of her. She gasped as she recognized the scene. She was looking back over her shoulder, facing directly out of the portrait, while a young man dressed all in black, with prominent cheek bones and a monocle obscuring his eye stared after her quizzically; the detail so fine and exquisite it took her breath away. The slight slumping of her shoulders, the dullness in her eyes were captured perfectly – it all made sense now. Christine almost laughed bitterly; she hadn't been crazy when she had thought she'd heard someone whisper her name; he had been there. He'd watched her walk right past him. Madame Giry stepped forward to stand behind Christine, "oh my," she whispered, recognizing the chocolate coloured gown Christine had worn at the premiere of this very same opera.
"He knew I was here, Madame Giry," Christine said dully, "he knew I was here and he didn't say a word."
"He thought he'd let you go, Christine. Maybe it's for the best."
Christine continued to stare at the picture. Madame Giry placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, "come, let's get you cleaned up."
Christine allowed Madame Giry to steer her out of the room, but not before she silently pocketed the drawing, gazing back on the room with a look of intense longing.
The lights began to flicker once more as Madame Giry emerged with Christine from the bathroom, her hair and make-up fixed and looking as fresh as ever. They made their way silently back to their seats, and waited for the second Act to begin. The first time she had seen this opera Christine had waited with bated breath, openly wondering who the composer of such beautiful music, such grandiosity could possibly be. Now she knew, and she sat and watched and listened with a fuller understanding; it was as though she was seeing the opera for the first time through new eyes – and it chilled her to the bone. The story was an unmistakable, yet slightly altered retelling of her own life, the terrible love triangle she was subjected to, torn between the dangerous, yet passionate intensity of one man, and the kindness and security offered by the other. Ultimately it was the perilous jealousy of the one, of the ruthless betrayal of the girl that led to his downfall. Christine watched her life play out before her eyes, as she slowly came to understand. Meg's words from that night echoed in her mind; "-Oh, but I cannot believe that girl could have been so cruel. All that man ever did was love her unconditionally, and she betrayed him ruthlessly… what do you think Chrissy?"
"If only you knew, Meg," she murmured quietly, watching her friend twirl about the stage, "If only you knew…"
She turned her head towards the grand tier; gas lamps burnt dimly in every box, every box bar one. Her eyes roamed the boxes until they came to rest on the one that stood out above all others; Box Five. From a distance it was shrouded in darkness and looked completely unoccupied. She gazed intently into the darkness, and felt a chill run all the way down her spine. She shuddered and she knew then, she knew that he was watching her. He wanted her to know.
The Opera finished to tumultuous applause as usual, with Christine and Madame Giry lingering in their seats as the audience filed their way out of the theatre. Christine's eyes remained firmly locked on Box Five, though the gas lamps had brightened to reveal there was no one occupying the box, she couldn't shake the feeling that he was up there, watching her. Madame Giry nudged her.
"I know this night has been terribly difficult on you Christine, it was never going to be easy…Erik… he…" she trailed off, seemingly unable to express what Christine felt in her heart. She swallowed. "Shall we go and find Megan?" Christine nodded silently, following Madame Giry out of the theatre.
XxXxXxX
Erik stalked slowly back to his quarters having safely seen Christine and the Girys exit the theatre. Now that Mademoiselle Giry was to be the Prima Ballerina for the company, barring Christine and Madame Giry from the theatre would be next to impossible without a sound reason and plausible explanation. Christine…
Oh how he loathed and loved that girl with every fibre of his being. She was his essence, his inspiration, and he was only just learning how to live without her. Leaving her had nearly killed him, but if he didn't leave her, she would have left him all over again. It was a dangerous game that he could no longer risk partaking in; it had destroyed his life once before, and in all honesty, he couldn't afford to burn down another opera house.
The thought of their passionate encounter in the hallway brought warmth to every part of his body; he had barely recognized the Christine that had stood before him, desperately pleading for his love and devotion once more. She had grown, not only physically, but mentally. She was stronger now – he had sensed it. It was as though she were two different people; the girl he had loved was just that, a girl. So young, naïve and innocent, and it was her innocence that attracted him to her and her fervent and unwavering belief in the Angel of Music, that had made their fantasy seem so real. She had believed in him without question… they could have been happy if it hadn't have been for that boy! No, Erik reprimanded himself, don't think on it. It's over now.
But Erik couldn't stop his mind from straying back to the hallway and the growing sense that this wasn't really the end at all. The way she had groaned almost fearfully made him cringe with repulsion at his animal-like behavior. He knew he loved her, but was love enough to save them? He couldn't risk dragging them both into the hellish darkness; he wouldn't wish that on anyone. And there was always the voice…The voice was always there, always whispering in his ear. It was a though a demon had possessed his body, and he wasn't sure who was in control. He didn't know if he could protect her from the voice. He didn't want to lust after her, he was a famous composer now and could have any woman he chose, but he only ever wanted Christine, and would only ever want Christine, No… he didn't want to lust after her, he wanted to love her.
It doesn't matter now, he reminded himself, it's over.
He turned the corner and slipped through a side door, coming out into the hallway, where he and Christine had been earlier. He shook his head and opened the door to his quarters. It swung open, and Erik halted in the doorway. There was something different about the room. He sniffed the air and caught the faint scent of lavender still clinging to the it. He froze. No, no, no, NO! His mind screamed frantically as he noticed the papers on his desk had been shuffled through. She had been here! Why hadn't I locked it?? He darted across to his desk and began frantically sifting through the papers, searching to see if anything was missing. He tossed aside his tattered copy of Faust, and his eyes fell upon his battered leather-bound folio.
His yellow eyes narrowed.
He lifted the folio from the desk and began thumbing through its contents. There were various sketches of the Opera House, both London and Paris, some preliminary designs for architectural plans, sketches of people, cast and crew of the opera. He shuffled right to the back, where a large parchment envelope concealed more of his more personal drawings. He flipped the lip up and extracted the sketches carefully, examining each piece that was committed to memory to ensure that none had been removed. His heart constricted a little as he looked over the drawings. A young girl sat lighting a candle in a chapel, two young ballerinas twirled their ribbons on stage, a young teenage girl sat looking forlornly out a window. A fifteen year old girl sat gazing at a tombstone, a sixteen year old girl made her singing debut in Hannibal… Erik sighed with relief, they were all there. He replaced them back in the envelope, and was about to flick the folio shut, when he noticed a drawing had been removed from the folio. He himself had removed it earlier in the day when he had looked at it, but he had placed it just inside the front cover. He swallowed hard. The drawing was gone. She has taken it! She knows it was me that night!
"Damn you, Christine," he cursed under his breath. He yelled with frustration, throwing the folio to the floor, where the sketches fluttered across the room, scattering themselves across the red stained floorboards. A wide-eyed girl stared back at him innocently. Will it ever be over? Erik already knew the answer.
XxXxXxX
The once warm summer night felt cold and empty, Christine sat gazing morosely out the window of the carriage as they made their way silently back to the house. Madame Giry gazed at Christine with worry, wondering just what exactly had occurred in that hallway between her and Erik. She had never seen two people love each other so passionately, and yet they were determined to destroy themselves. Both were prideful, and both were reluctant to give in to the other. What chance could such a couple possibly have? She turned her gaze to her daughter. Meg sat opposite her and Christine, her shrill voice piercing through the would-be quiet atmosphere of the carriage, as she loudly exclaimed over the evening's performance.
"-and then they told me they were anxious to see me perform after the running of this opera is over. Isn't that great?!" She finished rather excitedly. Christine hadn't heard a word; her thoughts were entirely occupied elsewhere. Her mind kept straying back to that hallway, and Erik's bewildering behaviour and change of mood. Meg frowned in annoyance, "Maman? Haven't you been listening?"
Meg's voice broke through Madame Giry's reverie. "Oh, yes my dear. That is wonderful news; you look towards having a rather prosperous career," she hastily answered.
Meg sat back in her seat, seemingly satisfied with her mother's response. They were silent for the remainder of the journey. As the carriage pulled to a halt outside the Girys' house, Madame Giry retracted some coins to pay the driver. Meg leaped from the carriage and ran up the front steps, anxious to tell Patrick of her news. Madame Giry turned her gaze on Christine, touching her arm reassuringly, "Christine? We're home." Christine nodded silently and descended the carriage steps, aided by Madame Giry's steadying hands.
"Patrick!" Meg squealed the moment she stepped foot inside the house. "Patrick?"
Patrick's blonde head of curls popped around the doorway, his green eyes sparkling as a large grin spread across his slightly stubbled face.
"Ah, there's my little Prima Ballerina," he chuckled. "So, how did the evening go?"
"It was unbelievable!" She threw herself into his arms, wildly babbling about the success she had experienced as prima ballerina that night. He set her down, grinning.
"I take it then, Emmeline, that the evening went according to plan?"
Meg scowled up at him, slapping him lightly on the arm for the use of her much hated middle-name, despite the fact he stood a good head-and-shoulders above her.
"Yes, Fitzwilliam," Patrick winced at the use of his middle name. "The evening was splendid." She retorted sarcastically, "and if you wish to live with all your bodily parts still attached and in full functioning order, you will never call me Emmeline again."
Patrick held up his hands in defense, "point taken."
"I'm pleased to hear that – you're a quick learner Fitzwilliam." she teased.
Patrick considered her for a moment, and for a moment Meg thought she had gotten away with it. Suddenly Patrick lunged at her, "right, I believe several warnings have been issued in accordance to the use of my highly detested English middle name," he said in a mock serious tone, pinning her arms to her side. "It seems said warnings have all but been complied with…"
Madame Giry entered the house, and Christine quietly stepped out from behind her. Her eyes widened slightly at the sight of Meg wrapped up in Patrick's arms, in what could be considered a most compromising position. Madame Giry uttered a small "ahem."
The moment Patrick caught sight of them he hastily disentangled himself from Meg's arms and coughed awkwardly. "Madame Giry." He looked at Christine. "Christine," he muttered uncomfortably.
"Monsieur Raynaud," Madame Giry nodded with a wry smile. Patrick's face took on an interesting crimson hue. Meg coughed and smiled wickedly; a cough that sounded strangely like "Fitzwilliam!" Patrick noted. He narrowed his eyes at her as she shrugged innocently. Meg turned her attention to Christine, who hadn't yet said a word.
"Chrissy? Are you quite alright?" she peered closer at her friend, "you look awfully pale."
Christine's eyes widened like a deer caught in the spotlight. "Is something wrong?" Three sets of eyes turned their attention on her, she suddenly felt trapped, and silently begged for Madame Giry to release her.
"I'm sure Christine in just tired, cherie'" Madame Giry nodded authoritatively, "aren't you Christine?"
Christine nodded wordlessly. Madame Giry looked at her insistently.
"Y-yes, I am. I'm sorry Meg," she walked up to her friend, "you were brilliant tonight," she kissed Meg's cheek.
"Thank-you Christine," she said softly, "that means a lot to me."
She gripped Meg's hand lightly in response, then quietly excused herself. She mouthed a silent, "thank-you" to Madame Giry as she made her way back to her room. Christine sat on the bed as though she was in a daze, slowly removing her clothes in a pre-programmed mechanical fashion, as though she was merely going through the movements. She felt gutted and suddenly weak, the emotional toll the evening's events had brought upon her, striking her suddenly. She collapsed against the pillow, her head spinning slightly as exhaustion took over. She was beyond tears; she felt dried-up and lifeless. She threw her dress to the floor, a slight crinkling emanating from the folds where it landed on the floor. Christine pushed herself up, and bent down to retrieve the single piece of parchment she had hidden in her dress during the evening. Slowly her delicate fingers unfolded the thick parchment, revealing to her the disappointed and defeated girl caught so miraculously and true on the page. She was still that girl. There was no hope.
"He might as well be dead to me," she whispered softly, gazing at the intricate details sketched into her face. If he no longer cared for her, why had he drawn this? Christine's curiosity was sparked. It couldn't be over; this drawing was a testament. He must still care for her. Her thoughts strayed back to the hallway, remembering the intensity and passion of his kisses. A blush quickly crept up her neck, as she felt the ghostly memory of his fingers skimming across her arms, gripping her waist with such ferocity. Never in the entirety of her marriage to Raoul had she ever been touched with such fervor; her skin still burned where his lips had been. It seemed as though Erik was the only one who could elicit such a reaction from her, the only one who held the key to unlocking the passion within her. Why had she let him walk away from her once more? Why had she let him push her away? Like you pushed him away? Her mind mocked. She cursed inwardly for her weakness, this was a dangerous game that they were both caught up in once more, and she refused to be weak. She had to fight lest she lose him forever. This was worth fighting for. She looked at the drawing again and smiled bitterly.
"It isn't over yet, Erik. It's only the beginning."
XxXxXxX
Patrick was the first to rise the next morning. The sun was already beating down mercilessly upon the house and the temperature was quickly rising. He walked down the hallway, passing Christine's room on the way. The door was slightly ajar, and he caught a glimpse of her heavenly form through the crack it created. She groaned slightly and shifted beneath the light sheet, her brown curls splayed about her angelic face. He heard the tell-tale crunch of paper as she shifted her head. Was she sleeping on-? Patrick shook himself and closed the door. It was time to put that chapter of his life behind him.
He continued down the hallway until he came across Meg's room. The door was closed and he could hear her light snoring emanating from within. He opened the door, the sunlight streamed through the semi-grimy window panes; falling upon her golden head and making it shine with even greater luminosity. He smiled to himself; she was by far less elegant than Christine. The sheets were scrunched about her form, her blonde hair was tousled and she slept sprawled across the bed, her mouth full-blown agape and… Patrick peered closer, a small dribble of drool dripping from her mouth and collecting at a small pool beneath her chin. He smirked to himself, wishing he could capture this moment forever. Despite her obvious lack of elegance and grace she displayed when she wasn't dancing, Patrick found himself warming to her. There was something about her bubbly and lively nature that intrigued him; she had no shame. She was willing to be outgoing and adventurous; something he found immensely attractive. She wasn't classically beautiful as Christine was, but pretty in her own unique way. He smirked thoughtfully to himself before closing the door and continuing out into the kitchen.
He heard the sound of crunching gravel from outside and it was only moments before there was a soft knocking on the front door. He hastened to open, lest the women be woken and found himself face-to-face with a message courier. The message courier was a young boy of around twelve; his face was already streaked with sweat and grime, despite it only being mid-morning.
"Bonjour," Patrick greeted in his usual French, "Puis-je vous aider?" The boy cocked his head slightly to one side.
"Err, good mornin' sir. I have a letter for Miss Giry," he said, shifting awkwardly under Patrick's gaze, "from the Opera House, sir."
"Oh," Patrick raised his eyebrows, reverting back to English. "Thank-you, I will make sure she receives it."
The boy handed him a gold-trimmed parchment envelope. Patrick continued to stare at it as he handed the boy a couple of francs. The boy's eyes lit up, despite the French money. "Thanks sir!" He gave a quick, clumsy bow and ran off down the steps and out onto the street.
Patrick closed the door silently just as Meg emerged from her room fully clothed. "Who was at the door?" she enquired.
"Just a bo- I mean… a message courier," Patrick replied distractedly, handing her the envelope. "This just arrived for you."
Meg took the envelope from his hand, her fingertips slightly brushing his, and observed it. "It's from the Opera House."
"I know." He watched as she tore the envelope open and read its contents, her expression turning from bemusement to that of glee.
"They've invited us to a ball!"
"Hmm?"
Meg handed him the letter. He turned his green gaze to it, his eyes roaming the elegant scrolling of the lettering;
Dear Miss Giry,
I offer my congratulations on your recent success at last night's performance. In light of the recent success of the opening week of Night-side Phantasia, we are holding a ball in honour of Mr. E Deveraux, to commemorate his achievement. We cordially invite you and your family to attend the ball, to be held at the Opera House a week from Saturday and to commence at 6 O'clock. We hope to enjoy the pleasure of your company there.
Sincerely yours,
Mr. M Martineau, Mr. C Faurster.
Patrick looked up into the huge grin adorning Meg's face, her blue eyes dancing with glee. "I'm going to go and tell Chrissy, she'll be just as excited!"
He smiled with amusement as Meg dashed down the hallway, his green eyes lighting on the invitation once more. "I highly doubt that," he smirked to himself.
"Christine! Christine, you must wake up!" Meg jumped excitedly onto her bed, her blonde head bobbing wildly up and down in excitement. Christine slowly opened one dopey doe-brown eye.
"M-meg?" she yawned.
"Chrissy! I just had the most wonderful news!"
Christine struggled to sit up as Meg chatted away excitedly.
"Good heavens, Meg, slow down; I can't understand a word you're saying! What did Patrick get?"
Meg took a deep breath. "Patrick just received a letter from a message courier that was addressed to me from the Opera House, and they've invited us to a ball!"
"A ball?"
"Yes, Chrissy; a ball!" Meg replied, shaking her head with slight annoyance. "The managers are holding a ball in honour of Mr. Deveraux; the composer of the opera."
"Mr. Deveraux? E. Deveraux - Erik?!" Her heart fluttered beneath her chemise.
"Oh," Meg replied distractedly, "is that his name? Well, yes. The ball is a week from Saturday and we are all invited! Isn't that wonderful?"
"Yes," Christine replied, slumping back against the pillows at the thought of encountering Erik once more, so soon. Since when had he been one to be caught socializing? "Yes, I suppose it is."
Perhaps Red Death will make an appearance after all, she thought grimly. It isn't over yet.
A/N: I'd just like to thank all my reviewers for the overwhelming feedback I recieved for the last chapter; you've all given me alot of inspiration to continue on with. Thanks to; Dottie, Lady Wen, Lothiel, Phantom Phoenix, Lair Lover, L, CarolROI, Jenni, DevilsChildLover, Zeeksmom, Catoftheopera, Scully35, gershwin9, LonesomeGurlAngelofDeath, Cassiopeia Lily, phantomphorever, XScarlet MuseX, miffster, Marieena, Winter Arani, Angie38 and of course, free2bfroody. I hope I didn't miss anyone; thanks guys. Hope you're enjoying the direction this story is taking, hope to hear from you, and as always, Cheers!
- wing